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"It’s another universe that you can’t see that exists somewhere else," I said.
"Do you think there is one? she asked.
"I don’t know," I said.
"What do you think?" she said.
"I think...no," I said.
"I think there is one," she said.
My thought about art is always changing. Lately I went to the Robert Rauschenberg retrospective at the two Guggenheims. Most of the time his art seems to me invalid—a bunch of unthrilling pictures, clipped out of Life magazine and silkscreened haphazardly. But sometimes, when I stand a certain distance (twelve feet) from them, authority and pleasure rush out at me. He is a genius, I decide.
I imagine the emperor in The Emperor’s New Clothes felt a similar
rush of authority and pleasure when he beheld the glittering fabrics arrayed
by the two tailors.
Is today’s art the art of convincing viewers an arbitrary jumble is
art?
The problem with today’s art is that there are too many rich people. In the High Renaissance, Titian received six commissions a year, which he fulfilled diligently and brilliantly. Rauschenberg receives six commissions a day. No one can think that fast. Intentionally or not, today’s artists become interior designers.
Each era has its own valances for art, its own possibilities. We live in a Faery Era. Yesterday Violet, Sylvia, and I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a library in Rhinecliff, New York. The moment the Faeries—Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed and Peasblossom—emerge from the night forest and sing, is utterly convincing. (The faeries were played by 12 year old girls.) A production of The Tempest that we saw last summer in Woodstock had similarly convincing faeries (also played by 12 year old girls). And Fairy Tale: A True Story (the movie) where fairies flew dizzyingly above elm trees and swooped into attic windows—through digital animation—made me cry.
Why is this a Fairy Era? I don’t know. Perhaps at the end of each century, the fairies emerge to reassure us.
Sonny Bono, of the singing group Sonny & Cher, died when he skied into a tree, and I wrote this tribute for him:
Sonny Bono, more than any other long-famous person, is associated with just one song—I Got You Babe—which he wrote out of love for his wife and sang as a duet with her. It was a Hippie Love Song (Some people say your hair’s too long/I don’t care, with you I can’t go wrong) and the Public admired the trueness of this love. Though Sonny died married to his 4th wife, he will always be known for this young love. Sonny Bono became a Congressman, due—obliquely—to his love for Cher.
The trial of Terry Nichols, one of the indicted Oklahoma bombers, just concluded. His co-conspirator, Timothy McVeigh, was sentenced to death.
Nichols was not. Why? Because Nichols mail-order Philippina bride (now his ex-wife) took the witness stand and pleaded for his life. No one pled for McVeigh.
It is that simple. If someone loves you, you will not die.
Much of art is the construction of undying loves.
In my waking life I hate Classic Rock, but in my dreams, apparently,
I love those songs. I woke up the other morning happily singing "I Can’t
Get No Satisfaction", then quickly became embarrassed and stopped.
Today I am listening to Puerto Rican music on the radio. The first
song I dialled was a woman wailing:
Do you know what I love about music? How emphatic it is. When you speak with absolute conviction, your voice automatically rises into song. Quarrelling couples do this—they sing hate-filled arias to each other.
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